Technology
Professor: Meiker Class: Corporations Exam number: 544678 Question 1(a): Given that § 8(b)(2)(A)(ii) requires only knowledge, not intent, and Temtron International Corp. (Temtron) can likely be shown to have “known” about the fraud, the government will probably meet its burden of proof (RainMaker Manu. Co.). However, Temtron has several colorable arguments available AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Bullshit. I have zero arguments so far. statute of limitations?? Ugh I know I’m pass failing this, but I still have to write something. But this is weirdly liberating, and I’m having a hard time getting back to digging through this 87 page outline some overzealous 2L made. My friends are sitting around me, typing away, all of our ears blocked by orange expandable earplugs so we can pretend that no one else is here. We are all typing alone, triumphant, being special and bright in our happy productive place. I’m taking mine out so I can hear, just once, what it sounds like. That’s some serious fucking stress. Beautiful. Like a typing symphony. Maybe knowledge, even receipt of e-mails does not prove knowledge. Subject line easily passed over? BLEGH I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker. DO SOMETHING. DO ANYTHING. Like my one crowning achievement wrestling match. Dominated it. GOOD: do they even meet the fraud elements? No! Which one is weakest? Causation? Who cares? But...this is what I’m here for, right? What I came for this morning and for every morning of the last three years. To find the arguments and the counterarguments. To sniff out ambiguities in an otherwise clear statute to get Temtron’s behavior to go unfined and unpunished. Fill in the blank: Apple, General Mills, Cisco. That’s what this class has taught me. What every class has taught me. And I’ll do it, too. I’ll flip through and/or control + f my outline until I find some arguments some other very expensive and well-dressed slimeballs made to get their companies out of hot water. I’m sure they probably won some Top 10 Corporate Advocates of the Year Award and put the etched glass monstrosities up on the walls of their office. I had one of those offices this summer. Big fucking office. And my own secretary. I’m 24. She was 47. Black, of course. The lawyer/secretary color line was as crystal clear as the one in DCs neighborhoods. Anyway, whatever, office. It was a big one furnished with a desk Ikea can only dream about selling, with a floor to ceiling window that could not be opened to let in the air. Or anyone out. This is important and I am typing it and you will check it off and give me points for it . See Crispy Fried Chicken. But see your mother. You know what just occurred to me? I could fail this exam. I could actually fail. At this rate, I will. I could turn in this bullshit that I’m writing right now and fail the class. And that action, this action that I’m taking more and more with every word I type, would land like a an F5 tornado in a carefully manicured, unsuspecting trailer park that is my future. Don’t criticize my similes. Yes, I know what a simile is. And I don’t have the luxury of a 26th fucking draft. This isn’t Hills Like White Elephants shit right here. But take note: I have enough respect to italicize. Insert -> page numbers. Professors love page numbers. That way they have a sense of how far they’ve come and can flip to see how far they have to go. Not you, of course, you live for this shit. I’m sure some bright spark is going to say some interesting things that you’ve never thought of before and get a nice letter in the mail about how he got the highest grade. Something about how he really opened your eyes to a whole new level of bullshit doctrinal engagement. Then he can show it to his parents when they are all sitting around the table at his graduation dinner. “A nice note” his father will say “to end on.” His father is probably never surprised by anything spectacular that kid does. Dear old dad is probably a federal judge. Or maybe that’s my father? Or was my father? It’s hard to tell if he would be surprised now because I haven’t done anything spectacular since before I can remember what his reactions were. So what should I do now? What would you say, what would your answer be, if I had gone to see you in office hours and you had made some personal connection with me beyond recognizing that I had to get coffee during the break to stay awake? You’d probably say “Be a civil rights attorney” or something like that. That if I’m as passionate about civil rights as you are corporations, that I’ll make a fine civil rights attorney. You know what? Not true. You know what they don’t tell you about the ACLU? That’s is already full. With kids from Harvard and Yale. Brilliant ones. Ones who read legal scholarship articles for fun. All my family and friends and whatevers are coming to my graduation in a week, staying in hotels and buying me expensive presents that they can’t afford (I told them not to so it’s not my fault). What if none of that takes place? What if I keep typing what I’m typing and use words, for once, to liberate myself? This summer felt like prison. This exam feels like prison. The difference between working for a corporate firm and studying corporate law bullshit in law school is exactly zero. It’s de minimis. It’s taking this same fucking exam over and over for the rest of my life. You know what? Fuck that. Fuck that whole life and that whole future and law and all its bullshit. It’s made for people like you who live and breathe it. Not for people like me. For me it’s Chernobyl. I’ve got about four and a half more hours here. And if I get run over by a bus tomorrow, and I can croak something out in my dying agony, I’ll be incredibly sorry I spent it taking the last steps necessary to become a lawyer. I’ll wish I had spent it writing a story instead. About why this is happening. Maybe it will explain it to both of us. A Firm Handshake “So what’s happened here in this case, as far as I can tell,” the partner pauses a second and I look up from my transcription in time to nod. I’m diligent. I’m listening. I’ll repeat back. The partner’s just a regular guy trying to solve a tricky problem and he needs my help. Urgently. “Well, imagine you’re a scientist and your experiment doesn’t quite work out— and I’m still learning all the scientific jargon myself—but imagine instead you get something that has huge, unexpected potential.” “That P-value?” I say, excitedly. “Yes, exactly! The P-Value, that incredibly promising P-value. That’s what he had in front of him. He just got over excited and wanted to share the good news, you know?” The partner throws up his hands like he can hardly believe it. He’s sitting there behind his desk that’s all covered in paper and he looks like he could be someone’s dad. The wall behind him has framed posters of playbills and masks from around the world. Focus. Don’t miss anything. “This scientist thought had something big, something that could help all those sick people, and it was staring him in the face. He had a eureka moment, you know? That’s how this guy felt!” I can’t help jumping in. “Of course! He thought he was really on to something!” “Right! He hoped it could work, just like everyone. And things ended up not panning out, but how could he have known that?” “He couldn’t.” I said. “Exactly. The problem is, the government has latched on to his mistake to try to get some money from him. They want a settlement.” I shake my head. It’s like the evil character in a play I’m watching has just done something extraordinarily horrible. Goddamn government. He continues, “So now he’s got this big investigation going on and even a complaint against him, which is just crazy. And, worst of all, they want to sue him for a public statement, for exercising his constitutional freedom of speech. Think about it. If the government sues scientists every time they get it wrong—” “None of them will ever make announcements.” I say. “You got it! This is scientific speech! It’s protected by the First Amendment!” “Unbelievable!” I almost yell, completely indignant. The government can’t go around suing people for making announcements, for goodness sakes! I feel like I’m taking up a fight for civil rights. He nods at me. We understand each other. “So that’s where we’re at. What I need you to do is...” ... It’s 6 p.m. I’m in my office, which is the size of my apartment bedroom. When I first saw the office’s light wood surfaces, big windows, and jar of candy (my favorite) on the desk, I knew it would be a positive, affirming place. I like that I can type on my computer and face the door but also spin around and read on the wrap-around desk by the window. I like to take breaks to look out over the city. ... It’s 9 p.m. My extra suit hangs, as if for a costume change, on the back of my office door. I had a dream once where a partner told me most people invested in a $100,000 suit when they first started out. I now own more suits and skirts and blouses and pantyhose than I ever have before. I put on makeup every day. ... It’s midnight. Most people have gone home and the hallway lights, triggered only by movement, are off. My office is covered in paper—printed cases flipped open, law review articles with yellow highlights, and heavy tomes, their pages thinner than a Bible’s, opened to chapters on the First Amendment—and I’m feeling really fucking tired. I look at the calendar. This month: mock trial, mock negotiation, mock assignment meeting—the whole summer a never ending dress rehearsal. This week: cocktail hours, breakfasts, meetings, activities, and receptions, receptions, receptions. Tomorrow: lunch date with a partner. The last one was with a Fran-Drescher-sound-alike who talked for two hours about the importance of her children’s daily snack routines. I turn to the window and see my yellow, ghost-like reflection hover over the dark city below. I am above the city and its people and doubtless am meant to feel that way. ... It’s 2 a.m. I’ve just reread the complaint and the facts. I feel sick. I reread the things I’ve highlighted. Wire fraud...willful deception...raised patient hopes...''I choke, silently, over the words... ''poor prognosis...no proven benefit...''it feels like someone is sticking their fingers down my throat... ''experiment results...unambiguous failure...hereby charged....''I pitch forward and gag, my stomach churning like I’m in exams. I close my eyes and suddenly see a room full of familiar faces contorted in concentration, all typing furiously, spewing thoughts onto the digital pages, tossing out sentences like nets to catch fish. That claustrophobic panic sets in, fourteen minutes, make it happen, do or die. I remember this exam. I watch myself type: ''All we’ve learned in this class is that we can marshal theories into arguments in the interest of our clients, that each point has a counterpoint, that all theories of law and justice are incoherent and have weaknesses. There is no one truth, I’ve learned, no way more righteous than another. I should learn to profit from the argument itself. '' Someone is vacuuming in the hallway. I was drifting into sleep. I was right then and I’m right now. The self-congratulatory pro bono award ceremony, the diversity scholarship program, the events all designed to “put us at ease”—all of it a ridiculous ongoing performance. The whole office is moneyed over like wallpaper. The makeup, the designer suits, the lint rollers stashed in the drawers. All of us terrified we won’t get offers. On the outside, handshakes and eye contact and sincere nice-to-meet-yous, on the inside, ''work not up to standard, no partnership potential, too independent. Most of the time, the bright light of scrutiny blinds us and obscures them all in the dark. But experienced actors know the audience is acting, too. I am seized by an urge to go back to his office. I get up and go, bringing nothing. His door is open. No one is here. I walk in, violating that sacred space, my heart beating inside my chest the way it does at a concert. I go to the wall and lift a mask up off its nail and bring it down. I walk it over to the window and examine it. It has a wide, bizarre mouth, like the faces on a totem pole. But it’s bright colors are muted in the dark. On the rough, unpainted back, there is a small oblong sticker in gold. Made in China. I laugh. Even his masks are fake. I hold it up to my face, its unfinished wood scratching my cheeks, and look out over the city, seeing anew its familiar shape.